


Barton Hollow

by weekendsareforwhiskey



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Southern Gothic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-25 10:47:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22431040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekendsareforwhiskey/pseuds/weekendsareforwhiskey
Summary: Ain't going back to Barton HollowDevil gonna follow me e'er I goWon't do me no good washing in the riverCan't no preacher man save my soulDeep in the south, where the air crackles with something more than a thunderstorm, there's a new preacher at the pulpit and a young woman who never skips a service.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26





	Barton Hollow

It’s been years since the agricultural town the Stark family calls home has welcomed a new and noteworthy person. It's so far deep in the south many in the town say it's been swallowed up by the earth itself. The last newcomer who'd "just been passing through but who turned out to love the place so much" was a traveling salesman trying to pull a long-con. It was only ruined when he eventually fell for the town librarian. Everyone was astonished when the truth came out after they’d run away together. But there’s no traveling salesman this time. Instead, it’s the talk of the general store, the barbershop, the diner, the pharmacy, _and_ the beauty parlor... when a new preacher arrives to speak from the pulpit of their tiny little white chapel. The town, as always in any divisive bit of gossip, is split between love and hate. There isn’t any bit of indifference. 

Some say he’s another con man trying to take women and children and money. An oily snake bent on introducing sin to their simple, country Eden. Others say he’s the most spiritual man of them all. A prophet of God, sent straight from heaven -on the train from the capital- to absolve them of all of their sins. 

It does seem to be a bit telling that most often it’s the men who call him a snake, while the women bring him their best baked goods. 

As the preachers of the Born Again Sparrows always teach, he turns the other cheek to the men, never says an ill word towards them. They earn a smile and polite conversation if they’re outward in their aggression. They all seem to quiet down when rumors of their own illicit behavior start to make the rounds, seemingly out of nowhere. Questions arise from their wives and mothers: When were they last in Sunday service? Where could they possibly be going when they head to the edge of town on weeknights after the day’s hard work is done? Where's that cheap smell of moonshine and foreign flowers coming from?

And the women? The ones who seem to take just a tiny bit longer getting ready for Sunday services and charity meetings held at the chapel throughout the month? The ones who go deep into their families' recipe books trying to find just the right one to tempt him? He returns their cake pans, their pie tins, and their iced tea jugs –all of which “have been in the family from before the South attempted secession”- in pristine condition. The freshly washed dishes even smell of citrus fruits foreign to this region and it makes some wonder where this obvious evidence of a worldly woman’s touch has come from. Certainly, no man would be so considerate and thoughtful and clean. Even if he is a preacher. 

The talk simmers down, as talk never disappears completely in a town like theirs, but attendance doesn’t dwindle. Every Sunday the chapel fills to the brim, they all wave their fans and sigh- in frustration and adoration- as he delivers a sermon so powerful, it could rival their summer thunderstorms. Unlike the booming, well-known preachers across the south, he creates a thunderstorm but rarely ever raises his voice and never yells. His delivery of his sermons have just the right amount of passion to get the crowd, _amen-ing_ over and over again. Even with his growing-popularity, he's rarely seen in town on a daily basis, content to spend his free time turning in early to his small home a few yards from the chapel. The windows are dark by 7pm and everyone knows not to cross the pathway to the home of the preacher unless there's a death. 

Even with the town gossip and the reclusive ways, there are the women, and some men, who still stand immediately whenever his quiet but powerful voice calls upon the members of the congregation for acts of kindness and charity. Or when there's a tithe that needs to be sent to the capital for their missions across the world. The chapel’s doors are always open to lend a helping hand to those who are in need of one, especially if they're willing to help fill other's as well. 

A younger lady always found in Sunday services is Sansa Stark. The eldest daughter of one of the wealthiest families in town. Wealth amassed from a peach orchard and working farm passed from generation to generation supplying that wealth. The frugal Starks and their peaches, the self-indulgent Lannisters with their tobacco and sugar cane, and the Boltons -whose alarming rumors about their plantation are just as prevalent in society as their cotton. Sansa steers clear of the family business as often as she can though, even though it's responsible for her more than comfortable life. It’s hard work picking and pruning and canning when necessary. Of course, whenever her mother asks her to do something she’s never one to say no. She’d just rather be anywhere but on the plot of land the Starks call home. 

And, as of late, there always seems to be something that takes her away from the old southern Colonial farmhouse. A cause higher than that of peaches. Instead, she suddenly dedicates her time to helping out “the less fortunate” as her mother always encouraged her in her early childhood. And if the less fortunate happen to be gathering at the chapel where Pastor Baelish smiles and thanks her for her time (with a chaste kiss on the cheek that no one else ever seems to see), why should she be at home helping her parents get more money when others have none? Catelyn can never seem to find an answer to that as she blows the hair out of her face and rolls up her sleeves to do the work without her eldest daughter.

And if the less fortunate don’t seem to need as much help, then why can’t she slip away to the beauty parlor or the creek or the shady, quiet woods before heading back home to make jam or dinner with her mother? Unlike the Lannisters and the Boltons, the Starks never seemed to take to keeping underpaid workers- or slaves, before the South finally caught up with what good Christian values actually entailed. 

No, sometimes Eddard Stark would bring on some of Robb’s or Jon’s friends to help with the heavy lifting during the summer or there was always someone who needed just a little something to make ends meet. He only had a small amount of men who worked year-round on the farm, unless it was peach season. Catelyn Stark would never say no to any woman with skills but they’d only ever kept one nanny and one maid when she’d had Robb and Sansa so close together. People would come to the Stark house to get back on their feet. The Stark patriarch and matriarch were content to teach their children the value of working hard even with their wealth. The bulk of the steady housework went to the Stark brood. It only began to irk Sansa more when she made acquaintances with Myrcella Lannister and -upon entering their mansion with giant pillars like the ink depictions she’d seen of ancient Greek buildings- realized just how simply her parents chose to have them live in comparison. 

Sansa, who never seems to step a toe out of line. Sansa, who finishes all of her chores (or finds a way out of them) and makes sure that Arya has begun hers, before she runs off with one of her friends. Sansa, who never leaves her bike on the front lawn and always places it in its proper space on the side of the porch where Robb built a wooden rack for them. Sansa who will always be found with an open bible by her mother's side on a Sunday morning, even in the middle of July. Sansa, who is the only one in the family to hang up her own clothes on the line because her mother has too much on her plate to do it just the way Sansa prefers, where there won’t be creases or lines in all the wrong places. Sansa who rarely complains and is prone to staying silent with a genteel smile.

This is the Sansa who sheds all of her crisp, clean clothes to jump in the creek when it’s just too hot to walk back home and get a swimsuit. Even though there’s a chance someone could catch her being indecent, she does it because she _wants_ to. Sansa, who isn’t the first to tell their mother when one of her siblings has done something wrong, but instead has learned when to lord it over them in return for something that suits her needs at the moment. (There’s been many a time when Robb’s taken the time to polish her bicycle so it’s gleaming when she just so happened to be strolling around the grounds one night while he was with Asha who lives clear across town and has a growing belly.) Sansa, who when she does complain, can throw a hissy-fit that raises the roof off the house. Sansa, whose biggest secret is that she never gets caught during full moons when she goes to the small wooded area half a mile behind their home. Even though all the adults around her have told her to never practice witchcraft, she burns birch branches, mixes moon water, and recites the incantations she’s been given by the women who travel out of the swamps and down rivers. The women also say they can tell her her future for one small price, but she's always been too in awe or too frightened to ask what the price could be. Her parents and the rest of the town call it unnatural but the energy she feels, how radiant the night and her surroundings become when she’s alone whispering words to the wind… it seems perfectly natural to Sansa. 

Sansa, who catches the preacher’s eye, and once his thankful kisses become a little less chaste than they should be... finds Petyr catches her eye too. 

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me if there are some historical/geographical inaccuracies and light grammatical/editing errors.  
> Went with a fictional United States/Seven Kingdoms take because I rarely use the fictional world these two characters come from. 
> 
> I read a bit of Flannery O'Connor and William Faulkner recently and there's a steady hum of inspiration in my mind for this Southern Gothic au that began so very long ago.
> 
> Drop a comment if you feel so inclined. It's been a while. <3


End file.
